Roosters straining against darkness. Snow falling, sparse and slow, like climbing hills in Greece to get a better look at the sea. Wings are heavy - nobody tells you this.
Morning passes writing, the only real peace I know. We are organized by sorrow, itself a product of fear. Aunt Muriel cooking eggs by gently spooning hot lard over them, never flipping them.
My doughnut soul, my coffee heart. The end game is seeing there is no end and so beginning again. Making peace with all the dead animals.
Reruns. Jade turtles, quartz, amethyst and a blue glass scallop shell on the chess board. Print too small to effectively read.
What does the market want is not a great question! Walls of dense bracken in which birds rest as the dusk thickens around us. Ireland lived in him in ways the rest of us could only imagine.
The secret to reading Tarot is understanding there are only so many stories and you know them all by heart. Deer coming off the mountain to graze. At night when I listen to the river I frequently remind myself I am listening to a river.
Yet eventually even remembering fails. There is a darkness gathering, a promise being broken, there are pretenses to holiness that are very hard to resist.
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